My eyelashes are going to be a problem. I have one eye that appears to be smaller than the other. It’s an optical illusion; one eye has perfectly normal eyelashes that erupt in a wave from my lash line into a thick, mascara commercial curl. The lashes on the other eye grow straight down. Like a camel’s.
It takes me a good fifteen minutes every morning to remedy this—heating my eyelash curler with a blow dryer, then folding the defective lashes up enough so I don't look like the lead thug in
A Clockwork Orange
.
Once I’m done with the lashes I freshen up the rest of my makeup. I have my hand on the glitter eyeliner Kat gave me, but I decide to save it for tonight. A spritz of perfume and some silver earrings later and I’m heading down the stairs.
Roman is already in the living room checking his watch.
“You ready?” he says when he sees me. And then, “You look great!”
Roman looks fabulous in his slacks and a sports coat. I can hardly believe I’m with someone so good-looking. “You look really nice,” I say. In my head I add:
And
I want to strip you naked and mount you
.
The shuttle ride back to the main house is quick and quiet. Riding in a golf cart makes me think, “
Flintstones, meet the Flintstones
...” I have to bite my lip to stop myself from bursting into song.
The valet drives us straight to the front entrance of the main house. We’re led inside through enormous double doors into a cavernous foyer with marble floors and a row of heavily draped windows that stretch two stories from floor to ceiling.
Roman thanks the shuttle driver with a handshake, then takes my hand and leads me through a labyrinth of cool hallways, my heels clattering on the marble floors, until we pass through another pair of doors and back outside into the bright sunlight of a courtyard.
The courtyard is like a country club and water park all rolled into one. Dozens of people in all shapes, sizes, and colors are milling about a dozen or so round glass tables formally set with white china, crystal glasses, gold flatware, and vases overflowing with flowers. A waterfall tumbles from the top of a thirty foot faux rock formation into a gray stone tile pool. The far end of the pool dumps into a fast-flowing river that circles the perimeter of the half-acre courtyard. In the shade of a white tent on the rolling lawn I see a woman strumming away on a gold harp.
Just like in some cliché movie, I actually hear conversations stop mid-word when we cross the threshold. Roman waves at a few of the assembled, and I hear whispers race one step ahead of us through the crowd. I paste a smile on my face and hope I will not be expected to hold up one-half of any in-depth conversation until I get my bearings and can pick friend from foe.
Speaking of foe, it doesn't take me long to find Isabella in the crowd. She has shed her second-skin yoga pants and matching top, and has donned a silk emerald green sundress and a fashionable hat that shadows her face down to the tip of her nose. I am trying to decide what type of workplace considers her dress “business casual.” Maybe she works for the Kentucky Derby.
Isabella glances at me and looks away with a snide smirk that makes me feel both underdressed and awkward. She tilts her head to whisper to her neighbor, and there is no need to wonder if she's talking about me. Her friend responds by swirling his drink around in his glass and staring at me with a look of utter contempt.
Roman takes my arm and steers me through the crowd. “There’s Princess Menen Tsehai Selassie of Ethiopia,” he says, nodding towards a tall, stunning, dark-skinned woman with cheekbones that look like they could etch glass. “She’s supposedly descended from King David and the Queen of Sheba. She owns a boutique in Paris.”
A short, swarthy man raises his glass to us and Roman holds up his hand in greeting. “Prince Petros Alexander of Greece,” he explains. “His grandfather was killed by monkeys in 1920.”
This sounds like something stupid and random I would say, and I can’t decide if he’s kidding so I shoot him an incredulous look.
“It’s true!” he says, catching my expression. “And he’s actually one hundred and ninth in line to the British throne. He owns an import-export business in Prague.”
He points to a woman in a very fashionable beige pantsuit standing at the outdoor bar. She is turned mostly away from us, deep in conversation with another woman. Her dark hair is short, cut in a very trendy style.
“That's Infante Luisa Victoria of Spain,” he says. “Her grandfather was King Alfonso the Thirteenth. His first son gave up the right to the throne to marry a commoner. His second son, Luisa’s father, was a deaf-mute, and also gave up the throne. But Luisa’s older brother died in a car accident when he was fourteen, so she very well could have been the first modern Queen of Spain.”
A startlingly handsome thirty-something blonde man surrounded by a group of female hangers-on catches my eye. He glances from Roman to me and back again, grinning. Right before we reach him he unloads his empty pint glass onto a passing drink tray. Roman drops my arm to deliver a strong handshake that dissolves into a manly hug.
“Mikhail, my friend!” says Roman. “Haven't seen you since... well, it's been awhile, hasn't it?”
“Since you and Isabella came to see me in Barcelona,” his friend replies in a cultured, slightly English accent. He lowers his voice. “Did you know she was going to be here?”
Roman avoids the question. “Mikhail Romanov, I’d like you to meet Leigh Fromm,” he says, motioning to me.
I notice that Roman’s pronunciation of my last name sounds much classier than when I say it. Instead of
frum
, he pronounces it
frahm
. As in, “This is Leigh Främ of the Trailer House of Främ.”
"It’s a pleasure to meet such a beautiful woman,” says Mikhail. Then he does something a girl like me can only dream of—he takes my hand and actually kisses it. I want to grab the closest champagne flute and join his entourage.
“May I get you a drink?” he says.
My brain is struck by the novelty of it all, and apparently has nothing appropriate for this social exchange.
Roman leans between us and breaks the spell with, “You still wearing that blue Speedo I saw on you in Spain? American girls love those, you know.”
Mikhail guffaws and wraps Roman in another hug. "Go get Faisal to dig something good out of that wine cellar of his. You're the only one here he would do it for," he says. “I want you both at my lunch table. I'm saving you two spots.”
I follow Roman towards an outdoor bar, but look back over my shoulder to see which of the harem will be bumped by the impromptu invitation.
“Is that ‘Romanov’ as in Russia?” I say.
Roman nods. "Mikhail’s great uncle was Czar Nicholas II.”
"Wasn't he...”
“The last Russian czar. He and his wife and kids–most people have at least heard of Anastasia–were all executed during the Russian Revolution.”
“It never occurred to me that there were all these royal heirs running around the world,” I say after a pause. “I guess it makes perfect sense, but when you read something like the Romanov massacre in a history book it just seems like ‘The End.’ You never think about surviving siblings or children or whatever.”
“We're out there,” says Roman, stepping up to the bar and ordering each of us a glass of white wine.
With the cool glass in my hand, I survey the clusters of people spread out across the courtyard. “I wonder how many of these people are really descendents of royalty?”
Not until Roman answers me do I realize that I've spoken this aloud. “What do you mean?" he says.
Uh-oh
, I think. “Nothing, nothing,” I say.
“No, really…I want to hear it.”
I take a deep breath and try to organize my thoughts in the least offensive way possible. "Okay, well up until ten or twenty years ago no man was ever absolutely certain that his baby was his actual genetic child. And even with the invention of DNA testing, very few men actually take advantage of it, preferring to trust their partners.” I shrug. “My company took part in an international study a few years ago to find out if men were right to trust their partners so implicitly.”
“Well, were they?”
“Male and female reproductive strategies are very different,” I say, wishing like anything that we would just drop this topic.
Roman smiles. “That's not really an answer, is it?”
I drop my gaze to my wine glass and just get it over with. “Regardless of class, occupation, country of origin, or ethnicity, anywhere from eighteen to twenty-five percent of babies born are not the genetic child of the woman's husband. Since a majority of the world's societies, and especially royal families are patrilineal…”
Now the tables have turned and it is
me
looking at
him
with an expression that says, “You're getting this now, aren't you? We don't have to continue this painful conversation for much longer, do we?”
Apparently we do.
“And?” he says.
“Okay,” I say, “think of how a royal title is passed to the next generation. A king would typically pass the crown to his eldest son, right? And that son will pass the crown to his eldest son, and so on.”
Roman nods.
“But statistically there is an eighteen to twenty-five percent chance that the king’s child is not genetically his, which means that the kingdom goes to another man's child. When you compound this statistic over several hundred years,” I say, motioning to the guests, “then it's very likely that few of the people here today are actually descended in a direct line from a king.”
Roman chews the inside of his lip, thinking. The silence becomes deafening. I get flustered and tumble ahead.
“So that's why matrilineal inheritance makes much more sense,” I babble. “A woman is always sure that a child is hers. From a genetic purity standpoint, it would make more sense for a crown to pass from mother to daughter. And when it comes to finding your ancestry you'd be better off starting with your own mother and grandmother, and then working your way back through the female line. Otherwise you’re probably tracing your lineage back to a total stranger.”
Roman stares at me for a long, long moment. Finally he says, “You're definitely not going to be popular at this party.”
“I wasn't exactly planning on doing a presentation on it after lunch,” I say sourly.
His response is interrupted by a uniformed woman walking through the crowd, gently striking a miniature wooden xylophone with a mallet.
“Looks like lunch is ready,” he says. “Do you mind sitting at Mikhail’s table, or should we strike out on our own?”
“He invited us,” I say. “We should be polite and sit with him.”
In reality, I don't want to take the chance of sitting at Isabella's table. I am no match for the cruelty of women.
“Alright,” he says, “but if Mikhail starts kissing your hand again I may start throwing shrimp forks at him.”
“Then I guess you'd better beat him to it,” I say, then immediately turn Delicious Apple red. There is clearly something wrong with whatever part of my brain that is supposed to prevent embarrassing thoughts like this from being vocalized.
“Hey, if you insist,” says Roman, taking my right hand in his.
His dark blue eyes are still on mine as he slowly bends to touch his lips to my hand, watching my reaction. Just when I think I can’t get any closer to losing consciousness, he turns my hand over, closes his eyes, and lets his lips linger on the inside of my wrist for a few seconds before skimming them over the length of my arm up to the crease of my elbow.
He straightens up, and with a sly smile says, “How was that?”
“Uh…” is all I can manage.
Roman takes advantage of my temporary paralysis and leans in to kiss the hollow spot under my jaw line. Before I can tell him that he is giving me Persistent Sexual Arousal Syndrome, he wraps his hand around my waist and leads me like a horny zombie to the Romanov luncheon table.
Chapter Eight
“Isn't anyone else swimming?” I ask, hesitating at the door of one of the cabana changing rooms. “And when I say ‘anyone,’ what I mean is ‘women.’”
I cringe at the idea of being the only woman in the pool, appearing as if I’m angling to be the center of attention.
Roman rolls his eyes. “You know how women are about getting their hair wet. Who cares about them? Every guy here is probably dying to see you in a bathing suit,” he says before walking off to his own room to change.
I never could understand the female aversion to water outside of the shower. Every waking summer hour of my childhood was spent at the city pool with my friends. Once we entered middle school and high school, the ranks of my girlfriends willing to go to the pool with me dwindled to nothing. I finally joined the high school swim team just to have an excuse to be in the water, and even now try to swim laps at least three times a week.
I pull off my luncheon garb and hang it on a row of hangers, then slip into my bathing suit. Although it's more of an “athletic bikini,” it's not the type of suit I can swim laps in so it rarely gets wet. The halter bikini top and hot shorts have alternating vertical dark blue, light blue and white stripes. I tie the halter strings tightly around my neck–giving myself an instant breast lift– before securing a bright orange, floor-length beach wrap around my waist.
Roman is waiting for me on the other side of the door. It’s the first time I've seen him without a shirt. I know that, being a man, his gaze is involuntarily lingering on my chest, so I don't feel guilty about letting mine do the same. I'm relieved to see that his chest hair is minimal. I know there are women who like the old-school Sean Connery 007 look, women who get charged up over the idea of running their fingers through chest hair like they’re stroking a shag carpet.
I require at least a minimal amount of manscaping. If I’m not allowed to let my legs and armpits go rampant Sasquatch-style, I don't think it's too much to ask a guy to at least run a wax strip over his nipple hairs a few times a year.